Home Alone or How The Grinch Found Christmas
by sandra70
Summary: Modern AU: Emma Swan and Killian Jones both planned to visit their siblings for Christmas... both were thwarted by the weather. Does it have to be a lonely Christmas for them?


"Rob, wait!" A familiar voice stops him just when he's about to pack up his stuff including the last remaining tree, a crooked, ugly thing. The voice comes from a bundled-up figure, muffled by an enormous scarf wrapped around his neck and lower half of his face. He squints his eyes, his sight a bit hindered by the clouds of his own breath and the snowflakes in his eyelashes. It can't be, but it sure looks like it's...

"Killian? The bloody hell are you doing here?" he calls. "I thought you were long at home by now, already getting squiffy on Liam's eggnogg!"

"I wish," his friend growls and pulls the scarf a bit down. "Haven't you heard that the airport's closed?"

"Of course I have," he replies, "but I thought you got out long before."

Killian huffs. "My flight was one of the first to get canceled."

"Bloody sucks!" Robin comments, and then it dawns on him. "So you've come here to buy a tree?"

"Bloody does," Killian agrees grumpily, "and aye, that's exactly what I want."

"Well, you're lucky, mate. I've got _one_ left." Robin sways his arm out in a worldly gesture, hoping to distract his friend from the fact that the only remaining tree he can offer is a short, crooked thing he should be ashamed to ask any money for.

Turns out, no such distraction is needed, because they're both thrown off track by an equally bundled figure holding the tree in question in her gloved hand. The blond waves cascading down from under the already snow-caked beanie indicate it's a woman.

"Excuse me, love," Killian addresses her, "but that's _my_ tree."

"Think not, buddy," comes the dry and not very friendly reply, "it's this guy's" – she waves the miserable little tree at Robin – "and as soon as I've paid him, it's gonna be mine."

"You might not have noticed," Killian tries again politely, "but I was here first."

The woman snorts. "So? You might have been here, but you didn't buy, you were blabbing. I'm buying." She puts down the tree and fumbles inside the pockets of her padded anorak.

"Look," Killian begins, his voice already sounding slightly exhausted, but the blonde cuts him off right away.

"I don't have time for this nonsense," she says firmly and turns to Robin, ignoring Killian's indignant expression. "How much?"

"And I don't have time for this nonsense, either," Killian growls and turns to his friend as well. "Tell the lass that..."

Robin is smart enough not to get in the line of fire. He raises both hands in a defensive gesture, pure self-defense, actually. "You duke that out by yourselves," he tells them in a no-nonsense voice. "I'll be right over there." He moves away from them.

Killian sighs – even though he understands his friend – and turns back to the blonde. "Listen, love," he tries again, but that's just as far as he'll get.

"I'm _not_ your love," she interrupts, taking a step closer and glaring menacingly at him. "And now – _cut_ the crap and get the _fuck_ out of my way, I really don't have time for this shit." She tries to stare him down and delights in his exasperated expression and the way his jaw clenches is anger.

"Who are you, the Grinch?!" he finally blurts out. "Ruining other people's Christmas with your rudeness, just because you're bloody _miserable_?!"

Her whole posture stiffens. She's bundled up against the icy wind, but even in the dim light of the street lamps he can see the anger flashing in her eyes, and something more lying beneath that anger. He isn't sure, it could be hurt, defeat, and the moment the words are out of his mouth he already regrets them – it's not in Killian Jones' code to go over the line like that.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but before he can say anything, the woman shoves the poor, malformed little tree into his hand and snorts.

"Congratulations, you can ruin your own Christmas with this ugly ass hobbit tree," she snaps. "I'll have something better to look at."

And with that, she turns around and stomps away, leaving puffs of her angry breath as white clouds in the air. Killian's eyes follow her, and he shakes his head, more at himself.

"What was that, mate?" Robin's voice startles him, and he whirls around. "Not very gentlemanly of you, I must say."

"I know, I know," Killian huffs. "I'll make it up to her." He looks the short ugly tree up and down and sighs.

"Oh? And how are you gonna do that?" his friend asks.

"I know her," he explains to Robin's surprise, "she lives in my building."

"Really? You must have made barely any impression," Robin comments in an amused voice, "She didn't seem to recognize you."

"She most probably didn't," Killian agrees, "she's the grumpy type. You know, doesn't talk to people, never looks at anyone."

Robin chuckles. "Well then, good luck with that. So, are you buying the tree, after you've driven away my last customer?"

"That's highway robbery," Killian growls and points his finger at his friend, "and she was right, you know? This _is_ a hobbit tree."

Emma Swan is annoyed. Like, _super_ annoyed. With that ugly tree and the stupid tree seller. Oh, and that asshole calling her the fucking _Grinch_?! For the record – she is _not_ miserable. Definitely not. Angry, yes. Mostly at herself. She should have taken Mary Margaret's offer, should have flown out to Portland yesterday, before the airport was closed, and she would have long been in Storybrooke by now, sitting in front of her sister's fireplace, sipping a hot cocoa with cinnamon and lots of whipped cream. Damn her own stubbornness, insisting that she was fine by herself, and that Christmas wasn't really a big thing. When she changed her mind and decided she wanted to go to Storybrooke over the holidays – for her nagging sister's sake, not for her own, mind you – it was too late: due to the raging snow storms, the airport had been closed, and there she was, stuck in Boston, home alone. For Christmas.

But she is _not_ miserable.

She can take care of herself just fine, just like she had to for a long time, before she reunited with her long-lost almost-adoptive sister. When the Blanchards took her in at age fifteen, she'd already given up hope of ever finding a family – there had just been one foster family too many where it hadn't worked out for her. And then, with the Blanchards, when it _did_... it just seemed too good to be true. And absurd as it might have been, when it started to feel like she'd really found a home where she was loved, like she really belonged to someone... for Emma there was only one logical consequence to avoid the inevitable heartbreak: to end it before it became so vital to her that it would have broken her for good. And so, she ran away, heartbroken, leaving an equally heartbroken Blanchard family behind. Later she learned that they never gave up on her, that they kept searching for her... and when her foster sister Mary Margaret finally found her years later, she had to learn that she never could make it up to the only people who ever had wanted to be her parents: the Blanchards were both gone, died in a horrible car crash. But she and Mary Margaret had each other, and it was like a miracle.

There's not a day going by she isn't grateful for her sister – yes, Emma thinks of Mary Margaret as her sister – but still, there's always that little lost girl inside her that never mattered and sometimes still can't believe she does matter now. So, she needs to keep her distance, her emotional independence.

Which is why she hesitated to accept Mary Margaret's offer – until it was too late. But then, it's not the first Christmas Emma will spend alone, and she knows how to make it right. She'll have her eggnogg and her tree, and it's going to be fine. Except, she hates eggnogg, and she doesn't even have that leftover, poor excuse for a tree she tried to buy earlier. It was the last tree, and it was ugly and crooked, and apparently nobody had wanted it. A tree that seemed like it was made for her.

But then that stupid bastard had to come and fight her about it, _I was here first_ , she can't even count how many times she heard that from foster siblings who wanted her out the moment she set foot into a new home. _You don't belong here_.

Well, fuck him and his stupid hobbit tree, he can have it. She has something better. She has a place where she belongs, and that's where she'll go. The airport might be closed, but she has her wits and her means, and she has a car and her determination. Some call it stubbornness.

Hastily, she throws together a few things, stoically (and stubbornly) ignoring the fact that roaring snow storms will make it impossible to even leave Boston, let alone to travel the highway along the coast of Massachusetts and Maine to Storybrooke in an old Volkswagen bug. She'd be frozen to death before she even leaves the state, but right now, her determination – stubbornness – outweighs her common sense, and so she leaves her apartment in a nervously cheerful mood.

When she's locked her door and whirls around to leave the building before common sense can win and she changes her mind, she almost bumps into someone and freezes mid move.

The person makes a huffing noise as if she's knocked the breath out of his lungs, and Emma is shocked when she is looking into the annoyingly blue eyes of Mr. asshole tree hijacker from twenty minutes ago. He catches her elbow when she stumbles, and she wriggles free furiously.

"You!" she spits, takes a step back and narrows her eyes. "Were you _following_ me?!"

"Yes," he replies and tilts his head before he corrects himself, " _no_. I live here."

Emma frowns."What?" Completely confused, she asks herself if that's possible – wouldn't she have noticed him if he really lived here? On the other hand, she doesn't really know anyone living in this building. She notices that he's still carrying the tree with him, and she wonders why that is.

With his free hand, he points vaguely to the ceiling and adds, "Seventh floor."

"Next time I'll check the neighborhood before I move into a new place," she deadpans, and to her surprise he chuckles. "What do you want?" she asks curtly.

"I'm here to apologize for my rudeness," he replies promptly. "and to bring you this." He points at the tree.

Emma is taken aback, and for a second she looks longingly at the ugly, crooked thing, before she tears her gaze away from it and firmly looks at him again. "Why?" she wants to know.

He tilts his head again. "Because I feel like I have to make it up to you somehow," he explains.

She huffs. "So now you're going to be a gentleman?" she snarls.

"I'm always a gentleman," he says, "at least I'm trying. And I think," he looks at the tree for a moment, "you need this more than I do."

A wave of anger washes over her. Who does he thinks he is, and how _dare_ he insinuating to know anything about her? She raises her chin, straightening her spine. "Well, you're wrong," she tells him with a strange sense of satisfaction, "I surely don't need that... _thing_." Secretly, she feels a little guilty for the tone of disdain she deliberately puts in her words. "I'm going to see my family for Christmas."

He raises his eyebrows in question, and his look strays to the duffle bag in her hands. "You're going out of town?" he asks.

Emma starts to walk towards the elevator. "Not that it's any of your business," she throws over her shoulder and hits the elevator button, "but yes. Out of state, actually."

"But there are no flights!"

"I have a car." She smiles at him when the elevator doors open, steps inside and pushes the ground floor button. "Happy holidays."

Emma's determination wanes when it takes her full five minutes to open the driver's door of her old yellow bug – it's frozen shut. But she gets inside, even if it's not very tempting. She drives half a block, and the engine dies three times, plus she can barely see a thing. That's when she gives up. If it's like that already here, Maine must be a frozen hell. She turns around and makes it back just in time before it gets _really_ bad.

She's chilled to the bone when she closes her apartment door behind her, not even a fucking leftover crooked ugly ass hobbit tree to make her living room look at least a bit like Christmas, and she wonders why she ever thought it was a good idea to spend the holidays alone. For the last five years, since she reunited with Mary Margaret, she's never spent a Christmas alone, and she's surprised how much she misses it. It's so alarmingly easy to get used to that cozy feeling that being with Mary Margaret always incites in her, that she nearly starts to panic. She knows that her sister would never abandon her in any way, but now that she's married and will eventually start her own little family... Emma can't help the nagging little voice in her head whispering that maybe having a real family would replace the sisterly bond. Because if Emma Swan has learned one thing in her life, then it's that she is never good enough, at least not for long. So, she has to prove to herself that she still can be on her own without problems – she's relying on herself every day, and she's doing just fine. Christmas shouldn't be an exception.

The next day is Christmas Eve, and in the quietude of her un-christmas-y living room, nibbling on her ordered Chinese food, she admits it to herself: she _is_ miserable. Zapping through the tv program, she finds what she's always regarded as _the_ classic Christmas movie: _Die Hard_. At least something. She sinks deeper into her couch and wraps herself tighter in her blanket when she's suddenly startled by a knock at the door. She ignores it. They knock again.

"Really?!" she huffs and gets up. People have nerve. She shuffles to the door and opens it – to find herself looking into a now familiar pair of blue eyes. Mr. asshole tree hijacker. "You?" she blurts out.

"Aye." He grins a little sheepishly, and she notices for the first time that he's quite handsome, in a scruffy, down-to-earth way. The smile crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes, and that annoys her somehow. A pleasantly spicy smell wavers into her nose, and she notices he's holding a steaming mug in his hand. He tilts his head, and she's surprised that she remembers the gesture from the day before. "I brought you something," he finally says and extends his hand, offering her the mug.

Emma crosses her arms. "What's that?"

"Mulled wine," he replies, looking down at the mug, and she notices more details about him, for example his ridiculously long, dark eyelashes. She feels personally attacked by them.

She shakes her head resolutely. "I don't do that disgusting artificial stuff."

He chuckles, low and warm. "It's not artificial," he points out, "I made it. With real Merlot and real spices, like cinnamon, orange peel, a dash of vanilla and cloves, of course."

She's starting to feel confused. "Why are you even here?" she demands sternly. "I told you I was going to leave town!"

He cocks his head to the side again, and it seems to be meant as a shrug this time. "Well, love, you might be stubborn, but you're surely not suicidal," he tells her dryly, "So I assumed you wouldn't go. And – here you are." His grin is somewhat disarming even though he had the nerve to call her _stubborn_ , and that alarms her.

"Still doesn't answer my question – why are _you_ here?" she insists and finds that – in spite of making it look like a rhetorical question – she _really_ wants to know why he's seeking her out for the second time already.

"Because I feel like I owe you something for partially ruining your Christmas," he admits, and it sounds really genuine. _Always a gentleman_ , shoots through her mind. "I have the hobbit tree," he goes on, "and I have the mulled wine. And I think no one should be alone on Christmas Eve."

That hits her right into the pit of her stomach, way too close to home, and she draws a deep breath and raises her chin. "Maybe I like being alone."

He averts his eyes for a moment and licks his lips in a nervous gesture. "Maybe I wasn't talking about you," he says quietly.

It startles her, and he sounds lost and lonely, just like she feels, if she's honest with herself. She studies his face for a moment, and it frightens her how much she sees her own battered soul mirrored in the eyes of this complete stranger. _No_ , she thinks, _not happening. I'm not standing here and listening to my own misery._

He returns her gaze with something like hope in his own, and she shakes her head. "Sorry, not interested," she replies hastily and closes the door.

He doesn't even know what pushed him to knock at her door with that stupid mug of his homemade mulled wine. Or does he?

Yes, he'd immediately recognized her as his grumpy neighbor the other day, at Robin's tree selling lot. They'd been living in the same building for maybe six months and never exchanged more that two words. Actually, on second thought that didn't even count as an exchange – he had said _hello_ , and she'd mumbled something incomprehensible in return or just huffed. He'd tried a few times, but then he'd given up, writing her off as what he'd told Robin: _the grumpy type_ , misanthropic, whatever. He had his own package to carry, he didn't need more negativity in his life, and sometimes people who seemed mean didn't have a soft core underneath a rough shell begging to be discovered... sometimes they were just that: mean.

But then there had been a moment, barely visible and fleeting, and had he blinked in that second, he could have missed it. The moment when she'd shoved the sad little tree into his gloved hand after he'd thrown at her that she was _miserable_... right before she'd angrily snapped at him that she didn't need that ugly tree... he could clearly see it, that he had hit the nail on the head. She _was_ miserable, and now he had forced her to admit it to herself, and that was the most devastating thing, he knew that all too well. There had been a rawness in her eyes, like an open wound, and suddenly he'd seen himself in her eyes, himself in the loneliest, lowest moments of his life that luckily were long behind him now.

It pushed him to bring her the tree that had obviously been important to her, and it startled him a bit to find her with packed bags, heading out to God knew where. She mentioned family, which meant she wasn't completely alone in the world, but he knew, again from his own experience, that not being alone didn't mean you aren't lonely, and a family held at arm's length was almost as good as no family at all.

So, he watched her strut away with her duffle bag, worried only for one minute, because surely she wasn't really going to go on a drive out of town in this snow hell. No, she was surely going to be home alone on Christmas Eve, not even having a gnarly little tree, because of him. He supposed the least he could do was bring her something to make her evening at least the tiniest bit christmas-y, and he poured her a mug of the mulled wine he'd made to feel at least a bit of connection with his family back in England. He didn't plan at all to more or less offer her to spend Christmas Eve together, and he still doesn't know why he insinuated such a thing. It had slipped out of his mouth spontaneously, and when she raised her chin defiantly and told him that maybe she liked to be alone, it was again such a strong déjà-vû of his own past, closed-off self... and he knew she was lying.

But what could he do when she closed the door in his face with a determined click than to put down the mug and hope for another occasion.

Emma stands there for a full minute, until she's starting to feel stupid. She's still trying to process what just happened, and it's confusing. That guy whose name she doesn't even know showing up at her door out of the blue, practically offering, _asking_ to spend Christmas Eve with her? That by itself is already absurd enough, heightened by the sudden vulnerable sincerity in his expression. But what ultimately startles her is her own instinctive reaction – for a second she allowed herself to feel a connection to this complete stranger, and what could be more absurd than that?

She shakes her head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs that seem to have woven themselves around her mind. And then, following a strange, spontaneous impulse, she opens the door again and peeks into the dimly lit hallway; it's empty, of course. She shakes her head again – this time at her own stupidity – and when she's about to close the door again, she spots the mug with the mulled wine right in front of her apartment door.

Emma lets out a little surprised huff and bends forward to pick it up. The ruby colored liquid in it isn't steaming anymore, but it's still hot, and the spicy smell wafts pleasantly into her nose. She takes a closer look at the mug and notices that what she thought to be some greenish-reddish Christmas pattern is a picture of a very grumpy-looking Grinch wearing a bright red Christmas hat. Against her will, she smiles.

Killian sighs when he ends the phone call with his brother, but he has also a smile on his face. It's midnight in England, and normally he would sit with Liam in front of his fireplace and share the traditional Jones family mulled wine and a few bittersweet memories of their parents. This time, he has only the mulled wine and is by himself, but the little chat with Liam made it better. Killian promised that he will take the next flight he can get as soon as the airport is open again.

He sighs again and takes another sip, as always thinking of his mother – it's her recipe, after all, which is why the tradition is so important to him and Liam.

A knock at the door startles him, and he almost spills his wine. He decides to ignore it, but after a few moments it's repeated – quietly, but insistently. With an annoyed huff, he gets up from his comfortable armchair. He opens the door reluctantly and doesn't believe his eyes when he finds himself face to face with his grumpy neighbor.

Much to his amazement, she smiles a little hesitantly. "I have your mug," she says sheepishly. Killian just tilts his head, much too surprised to give an answer, and so she continues, "You're aware that it's not a very smart move to give me mulled wine in a Grinch mug if you want to show you're a gentleman?" She lifts the mug.

Finally he has scraped his wits together and smiles. "Who says that was my intention?" he replies in a soft, teasing tone, and she frowns. "Perhaps I just... wanted to make you smile." More surprises when she blushes a little – and it's adorable. _Not as hard boiled as she seems_ , he thinks. He tilts his head in question. "Did I succeed?"

She presses her lips into a reluctant, very small smile. "Maybe."

Killian gestures towards the mug. "So, did you drink it or pour it down the sink?"

"I considered the latter," she admits, "but didn't do it. I drank it."

He takes that s a good sign. "I'm honored."

"Yeah." She averts her eyes for a moment, and there's an awkward little pause when Killian is feverishly trying to come up with something to say. But then she stiffens a little, as if she's bracing herself to say something that's not easy for her to express. "You know, actually...", she hesitates again, but then she says it, quietly but firmly, "I don't like it."

Killian raises his eyebrows in confusion. "That's alright, love," he replies without thinking, "mulled wine is not for everybody."

But she shakes her head. "Being alone, I meant," she explains, and his ears prick up. He scrutinizes her closely, and there's that rawness in her eyes again. He realizes that this must be unspeakably tough for her to admit when she draws a deep breath. "It sucks," she continues in an insecure voice and finally shrugs in a sort of helpless, defeated way. "But I... I don't know... how not to be."

He swallows and nods once, carefully. "I see." He cocks his head to the side in an encouraging move. "Well, you could start by coming in?"

She licks her lips nervously and sways her head from side to side as if she isn't sure if she should shake it no or just go with this crazy flow. "I... I don't think that's a good idea," she finally says and takes a step back, at the same time stretching out her hand that still holds the mug. Killian notices though that she hesitates, as if she's waiting for something.

He doesn't take the mug from her, smiles instead, a subtle, barely perceptible thing she only notices in the way the fine skin around his eyes crinkles at the corners. "Got a better one?" he asks.

Emma looks at him in a mesmerized way, studies his expression, searches for something suspicious, anything to justify backing off, running away. Because this sure as hell can't be a good idea. _Got a better one?_

She doesn't.


End file.
